


Tales by Allan a Dale

by Neftzer_nettlestonenell



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Gen, Happiness through Allan-centric Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 14:54:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13460592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neftzer_nettlestonenell/pseuds/Neftzer_nettlestonenell
Summary: Allan shares a story with Djaq (and the rest of the gang), trying to acquaint her with the legends of the land she finds herself in.





	Tales by Allan a Dale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jammeke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jammeke/gifts).



> This is the first thing I've written from scratch since I got sick. What a relief to be able to do so!

There was but one fire of any note in Sherwood that night, and it was not meant for the eyes of any but the merriest of men, and the best of ladies willing to brave the dark, forbidding forest known to house the worst of outlawry Nottinghamshire had to offer.

Robin of Oxley, known as Hood, and his fellows flanked the blaze, sitting or lying about like satisfied guests in any Great Hall. Enough had been had for each their suppers—they had feasted on the Lionheart’s own venison (as any Templar might, were Richard himself present) and the best of October Ale, that English ambrosia same Templars spent years dreaming of whilst away in distant Palestine.

The Lady was present this eventide, though as usual none asked how she might be so, deep in Sherwood’s darkness, her kirtle green as Lincolnshire might weave it, but grand, too—as befit Marian Knighton, who all Nottingham Town would expect long tucked up into her maidenly bed. Not lying comfortably upon an outlaw’s chest, firelight and coming-on-drowsy contentment in her eyes, her hair tousled from his thief’s hands.

Fourteen conversations, some more brisk than others, were ongoing. The manservant tried to speak a little to each one whenever he could. The giant spoke least, though he remained not entirely silent as he saw to the task of keeping the fire up. The Saracen was hearing, for the first time, the story of Arthur, King of the Britons.

It was Allan a Dale had chosen to tell it, the tale of the Round Table Knights. “And that’s the end,” he said with a careless shrug. “Right?” he cast an eye toward Lady Marian, seeming to request her approval.

Having only half-listened to his story, her ears more attuned to the heart beating in Robin’s chest upon which she lay, Marian gave a side nod of grudging assent. “On the whole, that is how it is sung in Court. Though, perhaps with a bit less belching and farting.”

“It is a lusty tale, not of my design,” Allan threw up his hands.

“And what is it about?” asked Djaq.

“Didn’t you listen? I just told it to you, didn’t I?”

“I understand the plot, of course. I mean only, what are we meant to understand from it? It is a great legend of England, yes?”

“Possibly the greatest,” said Robin, and Marian felt his chest swell and fall with his words. It was as comforting to her as the roll and rocking of a ship at sea to a seasoned sailor.

“Then what, it is about?”

“What?” asked John, “not only farting?”

“I dunno,” Allan answered, as he was clearly expected by Djaq to have an answer. “Chap from nothing, no name, no lands, makes good? Turns out to be the right man for the job?”

John poked at the fire. “A man shows up from out of nowhere to save his people. To champion the weak, and pitiable.”

Much’s face was so crinkled with perturbance he could hold his words in no longer. “No, it’s not, you—and YOU!” He pointed an accusatory finger at Allan. “It’s about a bloody woman coming between two men.”

Marian sighed with the question. “Did you _really_ just say that, Much?”

“Lookit him, Marian. He believes it!”

Djaq, enjoying everyone’s joining in, was smiling at the verbal melee.

Into it, Robin quietly, even introspectively declared, “It’s about a man choosing between love and duty.”

Marian flinched. Her brow became pinched. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.”

“And which do you think he chose in the end?” Djaq asked.

Robin’s introspection disappeared with a non-committal shrug. “We shall have to ask him when he returns.”

“Returns?”

“Oh,” said Allan, “yeah, forgot that bit. Once and future king of England, he’s said to be.”

Here Will spoke out, in his reasoned, level way. “The story’s about justice, and power. It’s about using power for the good of all—all people, not only the powerful and strong. Arthur’s meant to return when England most needs him. To set things right and lead us into a glorious, heavenly-sort of perfection.”

All fell silent, as if envisioning what shape that sort of heavenly perfection might take for each of them.

After several moments, Robin spoke up. “Well, you know what that means, lads. Things are going to get worse even than they are now.”

All groaned. Marian threw a punch that had no heft behind it, toward Robin’s opposite shoulder, but he dodged her and managed to wrap his arm about her in a further, deeper embrace, largely hidden from the others by the night.

She accepted the embrace, and the kisses that followed as the others momentarily chased their dissenting ideas about Arthur and his Court.

During a lull, she spoke, her lips just kissed, but still wanting to have her say. “It’s a story about three people, Djaq. Three extraordinary people—the most extraordinary people of their place and time. Everything they accomplished, as well as them loving each other.”

“Wot? All three?” Much looked uneasy.

“I’ve heard of that,” said Djaq quietly so as not to further rile Much.

“Now, if you like that angle—I’ve got a story for you!” Allan announced, beaming.

“No,” said John. “No more stories from Allan. Someone else talk. Anyone else.”

Allan’s face fell.

“You should tell the one about that magician we met when we came into port in Palestine,” Much tried to goad Robin into telling a tale.

“You have already told it often enough even Will could recite it word for word,” Robin replied. “You tell us a tale, Djaq,” he called out the gang’s most distantly traveled member. “One of your legends. Make it as bloody and terrible as you like.”

“Please, with less farting,” Marian asked.

“Make it about something beautiful, the likes of which we’ve never seen,” Will said.

“And warm,” said John.

“And apolitical,” said Much, decidedly. “Leave Richard and his men out of it. I cannot cheer a story in which Richard’s knights are always being eviscerated both morally and literally.”

Djaq slyly smiled. “My people have a far-reaching and glorious history long before your Lionheart showed up, Lord Much.” Her eyes cast away from her companions and into the sparking logs of John’s well-build bonfire. “How do the English like to start stories, again, Will?” she asked, calling out to his place at the fire opposite hers and Allan’s.

“What? ‘Once upon a time’?”

“Yes, ‘once, upon a time’,” she began, and the high canopy of the trees seemed to disappear into the night sky, and the trunks surrounding them melted into the dark. The bonfire burned, its cinders catching on the wind, not unlike they would have at her home, where the sky—the same sky, the stars in their constellations assured her—also covered the earth. “On a day warmer and drier than any English hearth might offer,” she continued, her eyes half-closed, and as much as she could be, with her words, she was returned home.

**The End**


End file.
